Not Quite Bulletproof
by flotsam-junk
Summary: In which Q is neither the distressed damsel nor the invincible dragon. (Some light-hearted action with a splash of hurt/comfort).


A/N: Seeing as my first Skyfall fic was nothing but hurt/comfort fluff-n-stuff, I decided to try my hand at something with a little more substance. And on the way, discovered how _freakin' difficult_ it is to write action **things **when you really haven't any clue how things work. Hopefully, this is still fun and doesn't contain _too_ many glaring errors or discrepancies.

As always, cross-posted from AO3, where I am "Somnambulist." Come talk to me on tumblr at the-flotsam-junk.

xoxo

* * *

To say the current situation was _chaos_ would have been an understatement - and Q knew a thing or two about understatements, seeing as his job brought the unique skill of interpreting when the double-O's stock answers of "just a scratch" in response to "What is the status of your equipment" actually meant "wrecked to the ninth circle of Hell."

So yes, the current situation of rogue bullets and screeching alarm systems was _chaos_, and every accompanying word in the thesaurus. Amidst the shrieking anti-theft siren (_really, they put anti-burglary devices on burgled equipment?_) and the tear gas wafting through the air (007's improvisational skills left much to be desired), Q could feel his patience thinning. This rubbishy mission was the climax to an already-rubbish week, which began with facing M's wrath when Q Branch blew their quarterly budget barely three weeks into the new year, escalated with being forced to design a new Walther model when the mob 005 got tangled up with figured out how to override the palm code, and reached its pinnacle with this: lonely, angry cyber geeks who's financial straits to dangerous organizations were desperate enough to warrant hacking MI6's directory and stealing discs with "_compromising information_" from a decoy flat.

Something sharp and undoubtedly dangerous whizzed past Q's hair, knocking him out of his moody reverie. He glared up at 007who was stationed behind the rotting sofa they had propped up against the back wall, thoroughly blaming him for this mess with every ounce of psychokinetic energy he could muster.

007, of all things, _smirked_. For once, he seemed to be at a loss. Through the door 10 feet away lied the deathtrap they walked right into. The lonely hobbies of amateur hackers included rigging a webcam to set off no less than 12 pistols upon receiving the proper facial recognition, although their dazzling incompetence really came through upon the realization that they couldn't turn their own bloody contraption _off._ The moment Q and 007 had opened the door (which involved more of 007's foot than actual opening), the blasted thing had shot off like a rocket, much to the surprise of...well, everyone. Before the hackers could even commemorate their victory (Q could probably count on one hand the number of times these people had invented something that worked), two had been shot down in their efforts to retrieve the hard drive still hooked up to the main monitor, and another had his shoulder blown to bits while his friend dragged him down out of range. The hilariously-vintage joystick controller that aimed the fusion of pistols lay sparking in utter ruin, leaving the machine to blow bullets like watermelon seeds in all directions.

And so began a most _irritating_ and thoroughly _inconvenient_ stalemate, with MI6 on one end and a grievously injured half-team of hackers on the other, separated by a steady stream of aimless bullets. 007 would occasionally poke his head out from behind the sofa and fire off into mist and metal, but his shots were lost to the steady pattern of thunder emitting from the armed monitor somewhere in the middle of the room.

Q grumpily turned his frown from 007 to the rhythmic arc of ammo parading above him, wondering if M was eating his words yet. Phrases like "entry-level field work after the Silva fiasco is mandated for all superior-level employees" and "just a matter of unplugging the right USB port" did nothing to suppress his nerves at the initial briefing, nor was he reassured by 007's cocky grin upon being informed of this joke mission to the London slums they were being sent on.

Q was already imagining the strongly-worded memo he'd be sending to the double-O department in protest of this absurd new field work policy when his attention was turned to the agent himself. Q immediately recognized the slanted eyes and ever-so-slight arch of his lips to indicate the beginnings of a familiar "I've got a really stupid idea that you can't talk me out of" conversation. Q sighed and raised his eyebrows in ready doubt.

"I certainly haven't the time to sit around and wait for this bloody machine to run out of bullets, particularly if we want any piece of our hackers left alive for questioning. Stay here" he commanded and made to rise.

Q growled dangerously and yanked his arm back down. "I haven't the faintest idea how a mad kamikaze like you passed any psych test allowing you into field work, but in case you haven't realized, some cybertech neanderthals and their sorry attempts at abducting incriminating evidence is _not_ worth dying over."

007 shrugged. "I've thrown myself into the Thames for far less." Before Q could continue berating his poor urvival instincts, he cocked his gun and began to stand - until he stopped himself and pulled a long silver pen out of his suit pocket and handed it to Q. "Nearly forgot. Wouldn't want to tarnish my flawless track record of returning equipment in its impeccable state." he said with a wink.

Q's eyes widened and he snatched the pen out of 007's hand, shoving him down with his other. "007 you wanker! You didn't tell me you had this! I most certainly did _not_ assign it to you, seeing as it's barely out of prototype!"

007 grinned devilishly. "Really, Quarteramster. You should understand by now that telling a double-O agent not to touch something "under any circumstances, as it's barely out of prototype" is an open invitation for a few self-administered trial runs."

Q smacked his forehead. "You filched it."

"I filched it."

Before 007 could offer any argument, Q had taken off his cardigan and wrapped it around his eyes - _tear gas_, Bond had to remind himself - then crouched into a low sprint and ran headfirst into the fog. "Q!" 007 shouted into the mess, rolling into the fray and listening hard as three concentrated gunshots punctuated the flurry.

007 was just about to barge into the epicenter of the madness when his ears met a harsh and abrupt silence.

Without missing a beat, he sprinted to the center of the room, where the machine was finally quieted and lay a sizzling pile of smoke and metal. Q was hunched over the smoldering keyboard, cardigan back on and smoothed over, clacking away with calm concentration. 007 approached slowly and stared down at the innocent silver pen beside the monitor.

"They don't teach that in Research and Development." Bond finally said, his amused voice ringing over the unusual calm.

Q snorted. "What are you, impressed?" He unplugged a USB and pocketed the disc that ejected, then straightened up and turned to face Bond.

"And here I was, thinking you'd enter field work with a pair of swimming floaties." He gently lifted the pen off the table, holding it up to his eye with interested scrutiny. "What, exactly, is our Quartermaster's secret?"

Q, for the first time in days, gave a warm - albeit smug - smile, a rare sight that brightened his face and softened the harsh edges of MI6 around his jaw. "It is an electronic disabler, which does simply that: it detects the waves of nearby electronics and immediately deactivates them. Since this entire device was triggered to a webcam, disabling the facial recognition software overrode the coding it lost from the damaged controls. Just to be sure, I shot the webcam and the two main pivots of the pistol ring to ensure they are permanently out of commission. The disabler proved its use, although up to this point its range has been unpredictable, at best, which was its reason for being quarantined to further development."

007 handed it back with a kind of amused reverence. "How foolish I've been, spending my time in-between missions worrying over you running with scissors."

"Don't be daft" Q replied curtly, swirling around to face him. A glint of incredulity permeated just below the surface of his eyes. He took a step forward, leveling his gaze. "007 - do you really think I manufacture and produce weaponry without having explicit exposure to handling it myself? Does all of Her Majesty's service assume that I am naive to how my skills are utilized? Honestly, Bond. I work for MI6, not the Lollipop Guild."

He slammed the disabler into Bond's chest and made to storm out of the room. He needed a good shot - scratch that, he had had plenty of _those_ in the last hour - and M's head on a pike with a light bulb shoved into it, so he'd sleep peacefully for another fortnight. He paused and turned his head back to Bond, who hadn't made any move to follow. "It seems our renegade hackers made off out the window. Apparently they _do_ have friends on the other side, though I managed to nick the mobile they clumsily left behind. Be a good Hansel and follow the trail of blood to the gingerbread mafia house, will you?"

But Bond wasn't paying attention to Q's catty ministrations. His eyes had narrowed in on Q's balled-up fists, his posture having stiffened considerably since he retrieved the hardware from the computer. "You're injured" he said calmly.

Q looked away and sniffed. "You're one to talk, snogging the Thames every other Tuesday. It's nothing medical can't fix" he made to continue his march out of the room, but Bond reached forward and grabbed his right arm.

Immediately, Q jerked away, unable to hide the harsh intake of air upon contact. Bond released his hold immediately, just as Q's left hand flew to his right bicep, where it held in a steadfast grip. Bond circled to Q's front, brow steeled over with subtle concern. "What happened?" he asked with slightly more force, eyes now dancing up and down Q in search of more injuries.

Q gave a loud, childish sigh, and met Bond's gaze with both embarrassment and ire. "I walked into the stream of a dozen malfunctioning pistols. What do you think happened?"

Bond nodded. "Where else?"

Q didn't answer right away, instead closing his eyes as though bracing himself.

"Q! Tell me where else you were hit." Bond put his hands on Q's temple, forcing his gaze and resisting the urge to shake him.

"Upper arm. Lower rib. All of my vitals were missed. I will be _fine_, Bond. And if you would bugger up and get a move on, we could get back to HQ where I can prove it to you."

Bond's tiled his head fractionally, but released Q's head and stalked behind him, noting how Q's slow pace betrayed the fact that his posture was becoming marginally more staggered.

They had barely reached the unhinged door leading out of the flat before Q gave a pronounced groan and sank fluidly to his knees. Bond was at his level at an instant, wrapping his arm around his shoulders and feeling the heat radiate off Q's stressed body. "Help me get this off, Q" he said, tugging at his cardigan.

With no small amount of difficulty and much wincing, Q raised his arms to eye level and wrenched the cardigan off, revealing his rumpled white undershirt he had cleverly tried to disguise, exposing two steadily expanding circles of viscous dark red.

Q leaned into Bond's shoulder blade and closed his eyes, forcing himself to take deep, steadying breaths that caused his injured ribs to scream with pain. Bond tightened his grip an attempt to still him and prevent aggravating the wounds further as he reached into his belt holster with his free arm and pressed the tracker that sent out a silent mayday to MI6.

Q gave another groan, this time laced with irritation. "Mandated fieldwork my _arse"_ he bit out, feeling simultaneously foolish for getting shot, but satisfyingly spiteful that it would teach all of MI6 a lesson.

Bond chuckled. "Field work is necessary for gaining firsthand experience in essential life lessons: stealing the Quartermaster's knick knacks is _good_, walking into an onslaught of bullets is _bad_."

Q huffed. "The only new knowledge I gleaned from this experience is that I am most properly suited to wave the handkerchief as I stand in the safety of Q Branch and guide fools like you into battle." He wriggled and struggled to stand, but Bond met him with equal force, pulling him back down and flush with his chest.

"_Bond_" Q whined, squirming and lolling his head onto Bond's shoulder in obvious unhappiness. "Last I checked, my legs were free of gaping holes and still in fine working order."

Bond pulled Q's back to him. "Then let's keep it that way before this mad kamikaze changes that." He ran his hand briefly through Q's hair, eliciting another discontented huff. But Q stilled, his breathing slightly erratic.

One arm wrapped over Q's torso, while the other bundled up the cardigan and snaked over his waist, applying enough pressure to stem the bleeding and drawing a stifled, agonized exhale from Q. Pain throbbed along his entire right side, coming in hot bursts like lightning.

"All that talk of safety within walls, yet you are far from the distressed damsel" Bond muttered into Q's hair.

He felt Q's chest rumble with weak laughter. "Nor, apparently, am I the impenetrable dragon" he responded, voice low and quiet.

Bond turned his cheek onto Q's head, feeling the tickle of hair sweep his cheekbone. "You are many things, dear Q, but you are not yet bulletproof."

"_Yet_." Q emphasized, slowly lifting his left hand and placing it over Bond's lower arm as the fog around them began to settle.


End file.
